


Spent

by Reddragon1995



Category: Game of Thrones (TV Show)
Genre: Boat Sex, Dragonstone, F/M, Jon has all the feels, Jon is pissed at Ned, Minor Jon Snow/Ygritte, Minor War for the Dawn, Minor character mentions including Stark Sibs, Minor mention of Stark Sibs, Pregnant Dany, Rhaegar’s motivations, Winterfell destroyed, minor Dany/Drogo;, sixty nine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 19:46:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17310722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Reddragon1995/pseuds/Reddragon1995
Summary: Speculative S8 drivel. 4 times Jon Snow just can’t even anymore.





	Spent

He’s spent.

 

He didn’t know it was possible.

 

He was a virgin of six and ten years when he left for The Wall. Never been with a girl, never planned to be once he swore the oath. Didn’t mean he didn’t have thoughts. Especially when it was a favorite topic of conversation amongst his black brothers, green boys or not. Sam prattled on about it incessantly, and the closest he ever got to a girl up ‘til then was probably his mother or sister. But an imagination is something, at least.

 

Beyond The Wall he got his first taste of it. Ygritte, that wild ginger beauty, ensnared him. He had no idea what he was doing, just let nature take its course. First time he had her crying out his name in delight, he was so proud of what he could make a woman feel with his fingers or tongue or cock, he lamented how much he’d miss it, if he survived and ever got back to Castle Black. In his heart he’d known she couldn’t go with him, even with that first taste of her cunt on his tongue, the first stroke of his cock inside her. So he enjoyed it while he could, in that cave, then on the journey south, fumbling around under furs on the frozen ground, his worries of fathering a bastard miles from his thoughts as he spilled inside her time and again. Nothing came of it anyway. When last he saw her, dying in his arms, there was no child in her.

 

There were other chances too. The Red Woman came on strong, shoving her pretty tits in his face, putting his hand on her hungry cunt. His cock ached for hours after that and he finally relented and relieved himself, but it wasn’t in him to have her when her intent was obviously sinister, and Stannis might have had him gelded if he’d found out.

 

Then there were the girls back at Winterfell. Servant girls who tittered nervously, with their bosoms peeking over tight bodices, their cheeks pink when he’d speak pleasantries to them. He knows he he’s a “pretty lad.” He’s heard it enough times, as an insult, to tease and taunt him and make him feel less of a man.  People believe him unobservant, but he knows the effect his fair looks have on girls, especially now that Robb is gone and there is no one to compete with for their attention. If he were more like Theon once was, there would be a different one in his bed every night, they’d be lining up outside his chamber door for a chance at a romp with their King. But to him it is unbecoming, and he could never bring himself to stick his prick in a girl but not love her when the sun rose. And for a long time he didn’t know if he had it in him to love again. Not after everything.

 

Then he met her.

 

This silver beauty, sleeping beside him. 

 

She’s a force of nature, befitting of her name, for like a raging storm she washes over him, cleansing and purifying all the hurt and sorrow, nourishing arid ground, her mighty winds tossing him about, disorienting him. Devastation is her way, if she chooses it. She has the power to wreck him, to smash him like a helpless vessel against the jagged rocks of her island. It is not her dragon flame or the strength of her armies, but her. Everything about her. He loves it all, and were she to deny him or turn away from him, or worse, to die, it would end him. He knows it, he has accepted it. He is hers. And every night since he swallowed his pride and fears and gave in to what he wanted almost since the moment he met her, they’ve weathered the storm as one, in passionate embraces, their bodies locked together, male and female, sailing toward the end of the world, not seeking shelter, but facing it head on, dancing in the pounding rain, defying the gale to try to harm them.  _ They _ are the storm, together.

 

He’s obsessed. Obsessed with learning every inch of her body, every secret, every hurt, every triumph. When they aren’t setting the bed alight with the fire of their lust, they lay entwined in each other, talking, telling their sad stories, knowing one another’s hearts, not just bodies. But on the rare occasion she is not in his company, she consumes his thoughts. The lack of her presence is a physical ache. It’s frustrating, pretending to care about how to introduce her to the North in the least controversial way, or going over endless lists about supplies and numbers and defenses. He cares, he does; that’s why they are here.  But on this ship there’s little he can do. He’s a man of action not words. And the only action he can take is burying himself in her, tasting her, taking her into himself, letting himself be overcome, willingly, eagerly.

 

He wishes he could crawl inside her, so painful it is to be physically separated. She’s done things to him in that bed, and almost every other surface of her state room, he didn’t know were possible. She’s skilled. She was tutored by a whore to learn to please her husband, years ago, at the same time he was effectively bidding farewell to any chance that he’d ever know a woman that way.

 

He wishes he could find that whore and thank her. Her instruction has borne fruit. Her former charge is wild and insatiable, and though he’s a young man with plenty of years of repression behind him, he struggles to keep pace. When he’s not fucking her, he’s imagining the different ways he can, ways she may not have tried or didn’t like with another but would with him. He was the first to kiss her down there, the first to make her writhe and fist the sheets in her hands while he mercilessly licked and suckled and teased that succulent  little nub. He surprised her with it their first night, an act to him more intimate than his cock inside her. Since then, she’s not shy about asking for it, happy to return the favor, even as he’s pleasuring her. 

 

_ That  _ was something, earlier tonight. It was a struggle to concentrate on what he was trying to do to her while she was taking most of his length in her mouth, her beautiful peach of an ass splayed in his face. She won the race, gulping down his seed  while his focus was torn between the throbbing release of his cock, and laving her with his tongue until she broke. The only thing he didn’t like was that he couldn’t see her face when she came. All he could do was penetrate her with his fingers to intensify the sensation, and smile against her cunt as he lapped up her juices like a cat who got the cream. 

 

She’s had him four times tonight. He could tell she had a frustrating day, huddled in private conversation with Tyrion for hours, for when she ordered dinner sent to her room and gave him a look he understood quite clearly, he knew he was in for a long night. She wouldn’t say what she discussed with the dwarf, but whatever it was had her blood pumping so furiously that each time he was inside her, she came with ease and ferocity.

 

Pulling him into the floor the moment he stepped in her chamber, riding him shamelessly, partially clothed.

 

Knocking the forgotten dinner from the table, circling her legs around him, compelling him to push her to lie back, those luscious breasts bouncing with the force of him pumping into her.

 

Again on the bed, demanding that he take her from behind, hard and rough, a position she’d been reticent to try before tonight, rousing him to insanity as she pushed her ass against him and he could see himself entering and withdrawing, claiming her as his own.

 

And, the last act, tasting her while she tasted him.  That sent him over the edge. He’s exhausted, probably unable to walk as his legs feel jelly, his heart still racing from exertion.

 

In between each go, she permitted only enough time for him to get hard again, and he’s long since found that being hard for Daenerys is a near constant state anyway, like the permanent snows that blanket the ground north of The Wall. But she’s sapped it all from him, taking every drop of seed he can produce for the night, and she must be content to lay beside him now, well fucked and sleepy. He doesn’t know what he’ll do if she wakes later and wants to have him again. He’s not sure his cock will function.

 

But what he can give, he will.

 

______________________________________

 

He’s spent.

 

He just can’t do it anymore. 

 

Each day brings news more terrible than the day before.

 

The Night King, on the wings of the beast sacrificed to save his life from another stupid fucking plan, has destroyed The Wall, and his army marches toward them, felling castles and villages and hamlets as it goes, adding to its number those they could not save, those who refused the call to evacuate, those taken by surprise at the invasion.

 

Cersei, that treacherous pretender, deceiving them, betraying her promise, standing her armies down while gathering a mercenary force likely to attack from the South while they fight to defend the North.

 

But this news….whether it should or not, it has him spinning, unable to focus or prioritize or really even care at the moment. He just wants to ride away, naught but Ghost at his side for company.  He can’t be here right now, he just can’t, but he hasn’t the mental energy to leave. So he sits in his chamber, stewing, refusing food or drink or company, unable to rest, unable to cry, unable to anything.

 

It’s all been a lie.

 

Everything he ever believed about himself, about the man he called father, is a bloody lie.  His heritage and birthright concealed from him. His mother, so long the missing piece of him, below his very feet all these years. The man whose honor and honesty  he strove every day to emulate, false, duplicitous, and lifelong friends with the brute who stole everything from him, and never bothering to dispute the rampant lies the North remembers about the man who sired him.

 

He’s not Jon Snow.

 

He’s not a bastard. 

 

His name isn’t even Jon.

 

One thing Lord Stark said does ring true, he is a Stark. But he should have had the name; his mother’s name, at the very least. It should have been his from the start, since he couldn’t bear the true one and hope to survive his infancy. It was the least his Lord father - no,  _ uncle -  _ could have done as penance for his part in the destruction of half of Jon’s family.

 

But it was denied him. Instead, he grew up as the one mark against the name of the honorable Lord Stark. Loathed by Eddard’s lady wife, mocked by the likes of Greyjoy, resented by Sansa, raised parallel to the true born children, but despite the mutual affection with Robb and Arya and Bran, never really being part of their family, though it was the only thing he ever wanted. 

 

Alone.

 

Outcast.

 

Bastard.

 

Heir.

 

King. 

 

Dragon.

 

He doesn’t know what he is.  He doesn’t know if he can accept this part of himself.  He has no interest in the Iron Throne, despite his superior claim. In truth, his father lost it the day he made off with his mother. Someone else won it. So it would have to be taken by whomever wanted to try, to challenge the Lannister bitch, and he has no use for it. Let them fight over it. Let them melt it down.  Let the Red Keep his namesake’s son built collapse on their heads. It means nothing to him. Leave them to it. Just go. Just go away.

 

His mind races. He’d like a stiff drink if it wouldn’t empty his guts straightaway. He’s retched himself into dry heaves, his throat still feels closed.

 

It’s not just the lies. It’s the loss. The loss for the sake of his existence.

 

His grandfather and uncle, executed by his other grandsire, a madman.

 

The Rebellion and the thousands who fell.

 

His father cut down on the battlefield.

 

Robert on the throne.

 

His poor half siblings, only babes, butchered, their mother raped and mutilated and murdered.

 

Lord Stark, called to the service of his friend, beheaded within a few months of going South.

 

Sansa’s captivity and torment at the hands of the Lannisters, then the Boltons.

 

Arya, a product of her trials and danger, not the sweet, spirited girl he remembered, her innocence lost, more pieces of herself falling away with each life she takes in vengeance.

 

Bran, physically mangled, and little remaining in him that seems human.

 

Robb dead, betrayed and murdered in pursuit of seeking justice for his family. His mother too, and Jon can even feel guilty for that.

 

Young Rickon, only a boy, slaughtered for sport before his eyes.

 

The woman he still loves, if he’s being perfectly honest, driven from her family home as a newborn, exiled to a foreign land, orphaned, abused, raped, sold, hunted.

 

All of them dead, or irrevocably damaged.

 

All because of him and the forbidden love that brought him into this world.

 

He shouldn’t dwell on it. All the tragedy of his two Houses can hardly be placed at his feet. Rationally, he knows this. But he can’t be rational now.  

 

It’s all wrong. He didn’t need to know. Why Bran thought it imperative to share with him, he can’t fathom. The words left the lad’s mouth, cold and detached, like a child reciting his sums, and Jon heard nothing after that. The explanations Bran and Sam tried to give him were no salve for the burns of the truth. 

 

They’d loved each other, what does it matter?

 

They were wed. And?

 

He knew what was coming and knew the Kingdoms needed to unite to fight it, Kingdoms fractured by a decade or more of the Mad King’s atrocities, and he knew the Prince that was Promised would rise from his line. It wasn’t just love, it was duty. But all his prophecies and books and scrolls didn’t matter because he was dead, and in his wake, only destruction remained. 

 

_ Why  _ is irrelevant.  _ How  _ is irrelevant. Whatever his father’s intentions, pure though they may have been, the consequences reverberate still, manifested in his son.

 

And maybe - probably, even - in his baby sister.

 

Because they found each other.  Against all odds, despite growing up on opposite sides of the world, taken to their corners ostensibly for their safety, they’ve come together. To fight together. To rule together? Jon doesn’t know.

 

He doesn’t know how to tell her, either. He cannot lie, he knows that much. She has to be told, then everyone else will too. He can’t lead this fight pretending to be something he isn’t.

 

He doesn’t give two shits what his bannermen might say.  They will be incredulous. They might think him false. He can imagine the reactions of each one. Fuck them. On the best of days his patience for them hangs by a thread. He is still as much a Northman as they, he was raised here and it is in his blood. He knows what it means to be a Stark. He’s always known that, if nothing else. But even if their opinions don’t matter, they deserve to know the truth. They deserve to know alongside whom they’ll fight and die, and who will fight and die for their ungrateful asses.

 

But Daenerys…. _ Dany, his Dany….. _ he can’t predict her reaction. His greatest fear is her rejection. What if she believes this all to be a ploy to undermine her claim to the the throne? What if she thinks he’s known all along, and manipulated her, seduced her, made her fall in love with him, all to make her vulnerable so he can steal what she sees as hers? What if their blood relation repels her from his bed, and desire is replaced with disgust, despite the notorious practices of their forebears? What if she leaves? Abandons not just him, but their cause? They’re lost without her armies and dragons. Two is not three, but is still preferable to none. 

 

But he can’t keep it from her for the sake of a better chance for victory or, at the very least,survival. He can’t. There have been too many lies already. He refuses to perpetuate another.

 

He should feel put off by it himself. She is his aunt. These types of relations are not unheard of; in fact such marriages are common in the noble houses. But those are matches arranged to concentrate power and privilege, to keep undesirables from polluting noble blood. He and Dany aren’t married. Though before this revelation the topic had been broached between their advisors, a solution offered to solidify the alliance and secure the North’s support once she turns her attention south, no plans have been made, no decrees drawn up. The matter of his believed illegitimacy has been a sticking point. She offered to legitimize him, to name him Jon Stark, but he did not feel right about it without speaking to his siblings first.  Now, if the offer stands, she will likely want to legitimize him with his true name, if the proof in Sam’s diary and Bran’s visions aren’t sufficient to verify his status.

 

_ If she doesn’t reject him. If she believes him and harbors no ill will about it. If she still loves him. _

 

Sometimes, though not often, he can be optimistic. Maybe she’ll rejoice that she’s not alone in the world, not the last of her House after all, not the end of the line.  Maybe she’ll still want him the way he still wants her. Maybe she’ll agree to meet him in the Godswood one night, amidst family and friends (and his bannermen, if they absolutely must) and say the words and become his wife.

 

That’s what he wanted before he learned the truth. Not for an alliance, but because he loves her.

 

Now, he doesn’t know. He’s never been so confused, so discombobulated, not even when he rose from the dead. He knows he can’t bear losing her. They’ve both lost enough.  

He can’t avoid her forever, and a soft knock at his door sends his heart to his throat. He doesn’t have the strength for this conversation. But the need to be with her overrides his anxiety as he opens the door and allows her inside.

 

______________________________________

 

He’s spent.

 

The battle raged all night, dead men attacking from the North, mercenaries from the South. They were surrounded, overcome, but they live to fight another day. 

 

It isn’t over. It wasn’t an easy fight by any means, but he knows one battle does not make a war, and this is war.

 

The greatest enemy is still out there, somewhere, never making an appearance as Winterfell burned.

 

Everything is destroyed. The castle that stood for thousands of years, his mother’s home -  _ his home -  _ a ruin.

 

They had to do it.  Once the wights breached the gates, swarming them like bees from a fallen hive, it was the only way.  His heart shattered when he gave Daenerys the signal, and she atop Drogon and he mounted on Rhaegal set the place ablaze, burning the dead and the living who would soon join their ranks regardless.

 

Some got out, through the secret passages in the crypts.  Some fled across open country. How they’d regroup he has no idea. He doesn’t  even know where the passageways lead, the crypts now inaccessible, the entrance blocked by great bits of rock and wood and stone. 

 

If they hover above on dragon back, they’ll spot the survivors soon -  _ if there are any.  _ He prays to the gods that there are. He prays that Sansa and Arya and Davos and Sam can lead them to relative safety, even temporarily. 

 

They have to find the Night King. Find him and put an end to it.  He can’t be alone. As powerful as he is, as much destruction as his beast can bring, he can’t turn everyone from Winterfell to Dorne, not without his army. Jon estimates that they only saw half the number of the Army of the Dead. By his count, they slew six of the Night King’s lieutenants. He killed two himself with Longclaw before the gates were breached and he had to call Rhaegal to him. But this time the corresponding wights did not seem to shatter when their masters were destroyed. He doesn’t know how that works. He does know this - kill the Night King, it will kill them all. But it seems the Night King has another purpose, and went where they weren’t. Winterfell wasn’t his objective, just one more thing to destroy. 

 

It’s so much easier to defeat your enemies when you know what they want.

 

And he can’t fathom what this creature from the pit of the seven hells wants.

 

No one seems to know.

 

He lands Rhaegal in a clearing near a grove of trees and dismounts, the intuitive creature lowering its wing to make it easier for its weary rider. Jon pats the dragon’s snout appreciatively and Rhaegal chortles with affection, actually licking his hand like Ghost would. A giant, scaly fire puppy. 

 

His knees collapse and he leans against the warm hide of the dragon’s chest, and it brings its wings around as if to shield him. 

 

And all he can do is sob until he’s shaking.

 

_____________________________________

 

He’s spent.

 

He faced the devil, and he won, but not without great pain or loss.  The Night King is vanquished. But the Seven Kingdoms are destroyed, not likely to be rebuilt in his lifetime. 

 

He’s wounded and weary, convalescing on Dragonstone. The island is crawling with refugees, the castle bursting at the seams with people and activity.  If he looks on the bright side, he considers that these are people they managed to save. Surely something can rise from those ashes. 

 

His arm is in a sling, the great gash on his shoulder rendering it immobile, cutting muscle and tendon and bone. Sam says it may heal, it may not. It’s his sword arm. He can’t remember exactly how he managed to pierce the Night King’s heart, dislodging the shard of dragonglass that sustained his unnatural life. But he did it, even as King’s Landing burned behind them, engulfed in green flame with people screaming in agony within its walls. That was Cersei. He had no idea what became of the Mad Queen but he was fairly certain that she could do no more harm.

 

They had won, if it could be called a victory. Hard to see it that way with so much death. He imagines the destruction of King’s Landing mimicked the Doom of Valyria. Only his family had escaped that tragedy centuries ago, having the foresight to leave years before it happened. The same for the ruined capital. Those who remained, by choice, by duty, or because they had nowhere else to go, perished. When you live by fire, everyone burns eventually, red or blue or green.

 

His chamber door opens, the chamber he shares with his Queen, the one where his father once slept, and his father before him, and so on. His lips can’t help but curl into a half smile, he knows only she would enter without knocking first. She approaches him silently, tucking herself under his good arm.

 

Miraculously she survived the Battle Of King’s Landing, despite Drogon being grievously wounded, and her fall from his back when arrows and ballistas found their mark.  Somehow her loyal son shielded her with his massive body, easing the impact as they crashed to the water. More miraculously, the child inside her still lives, a fighter, a survivor, like his or her parents.

 

She rests a hand on her bulging belly, and he hugs her closer. It’s a small ray of light in this darkness but it’s what they have. What they created. Together, from their love, the continuance of their line, the blood of the dragon, with some wolf thrown in for good measure.

 

He kisses the top of her head and she melts into him, the one balm that calms his nerves and slows his racing mind. Wordlessly, she takes his hand and places in on her belly, and he’s overjoyed when he feels the strong kick pressing against his palm. By her face he knows the little one has been busy today, and he hopes the cocoon of his beautiful mother’s womb is enough that he shall never know the pain or loss or suffering into which he will be born.

 

Jon always thinks of the babe as a son.  He knows it in his bones. She is coy about what she thinks. Son or daughter, he is over the moon. She thinks the magic of their blood - that ancient Valyrian blood, and blood of the First Men, too - broke the curse. Because there is something mystical in both of them. They aren’t ordinary people. They command great beasts and raise from the dead and are impervious to the fire.  What their child might become is an exciting thought, a glint of hope and promise. 

 

There are decisions to make about the future of Westeros and the role they will have in making it. It will be toilsome, but he knows they can’t just abandon it, tempting though it may seem. They asked these people to fight and die and sacrifice and they did all those things. He and Daenerys must now be their strength. Hard to do when he feels he has so little himself, but what he draws from their family.  Soon there will be a Great Council called, with all who wish to take part welcome to do so, high born or low. Her idea. She’s a remarkable woman. She understands that in this task, all must work together, and none is above the other when it comes to starting over. 

 

So they will lead, as they were born to do, until the people decide they’ve done enough or haven’t. 

 

A playful hand squeezing his ass breaks his reverie. His Queen looks at him a mischievous quirk of her brow, and he breaks into a smile.  He can’t pick her up with one arm, so he simply allows her to lead him to their bed. She unties the laces of his trousers and hitches up the hem of her dressing gown, and straddles his lap, sinking down on his cock, welcoming him home. They make love for the first time in ages, chasing away the darkness, clinging to the light between them, a light that shall not be extinguished, not as long as they are together, and the troubles of the world, for the moment, fade away.

 

**Author's Note:**

> I’ve seen a few fics follow this type of structure lately and it’s very compelling. I usually loathe present tense writing but when done well it’s very effective. Hopefully I got it right. This is the easiest thing I’ve ever written. Please take time to offer feedback.


End file.
